


Golden

by LadyProto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied Tuckington if you squint, No Smut, No happy endings, Serious Injuries, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: Silence is the most powerful scream.((Spoilers for episode 17 of season 15. Based on the worst case scenario of what happened with WashMy first foray back into the RvB fanfics! Woot Woot))





	Golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EpsilonAlpha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpsilonAlpha/gifts).



_ Wash. Wash. Fucking hell. David! _

David. The name of the thing inside the uniform. 

Washington wakes up. His nightmares must have twisted their way into reality because this is a scene he’s replayed over in his head too many times before. Bright fluorescent lights beam down directly into his eyes. His helmet is gone, his armor has been stripped. The fear of vulnerability sends him struggling to sit, but he’s tied to the metal bed frame with thick rubber straps. His hand falls back limply to the cotton sheets. Clean, stiff, functional. It is a place to lie and not a bed. He’s here for interrogation, or worse --

_ Hospital. You know what they did to you here.  _

He’s in some type of hospital, in a terribly under-funded outpost from the looks of it. The room is little more than a concrete pen with a window the size of an envelope. It’s his own personal hell, scented of ammonium and bleach. Tubes become extensions of his veins and slink around the floor.  His air is being fed to him via plastic and metal. He can't tell what’s him and what’s machine. 

Wash tries to speak. He wants to say that he doesn’t want this, that being connected to machines was the start of his downfall, but all he can produce is a pathetic whimper. 

_ Oh god. Not again. Get it out. Get out of me! _

At the sound of Wash’s incoherent grunts, Tucker snaps to attention. “Fucking hell, Wash.” His voice tone is low and mournful. “Fucking hell.” Tucker’s at the foot of his hospital bed. His face is scrunched and twisted. What ever happened must have affected him too. “Dude, you’re a fucking mess. You tried to claw out your IVs.” 

Washington knows that voice. Tucker. Lavernius.  _ Safe _ . He turns to the sound as best as he can against the restraints.  _ It won’t happen again. Just untie me.  _ But again, there's no sound Wash can make. He must be sedated so deeply that his larynx is sluggish. That’s the only explanation. 

The tattered chair sags and groans as the weight of the bloody armor shifts. Tucker hesitantly stands, nodding towards the thick rubber restraints digging into Washington’s arms. “I’ll untie you. Just don’t try that shit again.”

At Washington’s nod, Tucker steps forward. He worries on his bottom lip as he fumbles with the buckles. He releases all three on each arm, never making eye contact. When he finishes, he maneuvers clumsily back into a waiting position, just watching cautiously with a furrowed brow. 

Wash doesn’t know what Tucker wants from him, so he makes a show of stretching out his wrists and elbows. They move easily, so he’s not as sedated as he thought. He tries to speak again.  _ What happened to me?  _ But still nothing. 

“I was hoping they were wrong.” Tucker sounds like he’s choking. “I can’t believe I let this happen.”

Wash doesn’t know what happened. The last clear memory he has is of a sewage leak, but Carolina told him that it didn’t smell like--

And then, the confusion, the flashes of lights, the screaming, the colors that didn't sit right in his head. Frozen in place, shrouded with the scent of death. Old friends. Dead ends. That man with the X on his visor. An itchy nose. Gun shots. Whiplash. Tucker screaming his name. 

“David… say something to me. Please.”

It takes every ounce of muscle strength and coordination for Wash to reach up to his own neck. His bare fingers stroke against sticky gauze pads. Blood. Stray syllables gurgle from his throat. He remembers now. His fingers curl into a fist, his bitten fingers digging into his palm. He can hear himself breathing. The oxygen floods in and out of his lungs but he can’t make the wind into words.  _ He’s mute.  _

“Please. Just say something. I’ll let you call me Lavernius again.”

He tries. God he tries. He wants to say sorry. He wants to say thank you. He wants to say Tucker’s name and ask how Caboose is. But he can’t. Every word he’s ever spoken tumbles together in his brain until they merge into a cacophony of useless sounds. His mind writhes with new thoughts, old memories, constant regrets. He’s trapped within another layer of himself and it’s scary to be alone with his thoughts.

Wash is wide-eyed in horrific realization as he raises his gaze to Tucker, who fails miserably at holding back a broken sob. “I guess… I guess you can’t yell at me for sleeping naked anymore.”

Tucker cries and Wash isn’t able to form the words to comfort him. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
